


Concerning the entanglements of a certain hostage exchange

by ConvenientAlias



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Les Chouans - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Hostage Situations, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: In which Merle doesn't die, and is kept by the Chouans as a hostage, entering a fraught relationship with the Marquis de Montauran.





	Concerning the entanglements of a certain hostage exchange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).

Pille-Miche’s bullet only hit Merle in the chest, in a non-vital position. He would have finished Merle off, of course, as soon as he got close, if he didn’t see, as soon as he got close, the Gars’ glove in Merle’s hand.

“Good God! The Gars will kill me,” he said, and he considered for a moment whether he should still finish Merle off—a dead body, after all, would not be able to tell the Gars who exactly it was who shot him. However, after some consideration, the gall of it was too much for him; besides, he worried he might be found out someday. Although no one was near, he was the superstitious type, and well believed old deeds came back to haunt one eventually.

So he dragged Merle, who was barely well enough to walk with support, back into the hall of La Vivetiere. It was bad timing. The Gars had just found out that his treacherous lover had gotten away alive, and here was the prisoner he had _meant_ to walk free now half dead. He gave Pille-Miche a ferocious scolding, but also issued orders that Merle be given medical assistance. He’d given his word that Merle would live, and as little as he liked any Blue officer, he’d broken his word enough times for one night.

Marche-a-terre was skeptical about good medical supplies being wasted on a Blue, but the Gars, after some thought, was reassuring. “We cannot allow him to walk away so easily anymore—for one thing, he is not even able to walk. But perhaps that is for the best. Let us keep him here, and perhaps we can use him in a hostage exchange for one of our people that the Blues have seized and intend to hang as traitors. At least that will be a decent use for him.”

Marche-a-terre reluctantly supposed it was not a bad idea. Though, in his opinion, the best thing would be to pretend they had the captain alive, and use the situation to take back their captive friends by trickery, while killing Merle all the same. But the Gars was very forceful on the matter, so he conceded that the exchange would at least be worth a try.

* * *

When Commander Hulot received the message saying that Captain Merle was in the hands of the Chouans, he felt a confused mixture of emotions. On the one hand, he had thought all sixty-seven of the men in Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s escort to be lost. Merle and Gerard were his best friends among the band, being the ranking officers and also generally likeable men, the one so debonair and the other so grave yet so good-hearted. So although Gerard seemed to be lost, it was surely a good thing that Merle was still alive.

On the other hand, it was not the policy of the Republic to haggle for prisoners. To be fair, very few men captured by the Chouans were allowed to live, so it rarely became an issue. Nevertheless, an exchange of hostages was not typical behavior for a Republican officer—those condemned to die were generally as good as dead already—and he hated to think of the precedent it would set.

But, when he thought of Captain Merle in enemy hands… well, to be honest, when he thought of Captain Merle in the hands of the Chouans, and all that Merle might suffer in such company, he cursed the day he’d met Mademoiselle de Verneuil. Were it not for her, he would have had the Gars his captive by now, and likely already dead, and sixty-six good Blue soldiers would be still alive, and Merle and Gerard would still be here serving him. So Hulot cursed Mademoiselle de Verneuil, at first in his head and then under his breath and finally out loud and very vehemently. And then he wrote up a note and called in the messenger who had brought in the letter from the Gars in the first place.

“Take this to your commander, then, the Marquis de Montauran. I’ll agree to his terms, but if he plays me false, he’ll regret it. No ambushes, or the hostages we return will be killed immediately.”

Of course the messenger assured Hulot that the offer was in earnest. Hulot did not believe this for an instant, but he had to accept the Gars’ words for the moment. For Merle’s sake, he had to at least make his best effort to meet the Gars’ demands. He would either free Merle or avenge him—on this he was determined. And he would avenge himself on the Marquis de Montauran eventually anyway, for the sake of Gerard and the rest of the escort. With Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s help, if her words to him were to be trusted, or without it, however he might contrive at a revenge to clear his own conscience of letting so many men ride to their deaths without even a fair battle.

* * *

Merle did not very much enjoy his time with the Chouans. For one thing, there was a bullet wound in his chest. The bullet was removed, and the wound treated with folk remedies unique to the region, obscure and questionable herbal concoctions, and it was healing as well as might be expected, but it still hurt. Though in one sense he was just as glad to have been shot—it made him feel a vague sense of camaraderie with the dead Gerard. “Well, Gerard,” he thought to himself, “I would have been willing to die with you, if you had waited until I finished my drink, and see, the same people have now shot me too, only with less expertise. So you see I am still their enemy, and I will still fight to avenge you, only I am not currently able to do very much—for which delay I do apologize, but you will admit a bullet wound is a deterrent. You yourself are not able to seek vengeance on these dreadful Chouans, being in the grave.”

Indeed this was the other reason he did not like being among the Chouans. He did not like to receive medical treatment or hold conversation or sit at table with those who had killed his dear friends in cold blood. It made his own blood run hot to think of it. Still, he hid this anger from his face and obscured it from his voice when he spoke, that his captors might think him complacent.

He was careful to remain debonair and polite in conversation with the Marquis de Montauran, for example. A dangerous man, certainly. Although Merle had heard he was going to be used for a hostage exchange, he was not convinced that Montauran would not kill him in a fit of temper if crossed. So he spoke well of Montauran’s “hospitality” and praised his genius on the field.

Montauran said, “Your Hulot has his own sort of craftiness as well, I suppose.”

“Well, the two of you clashing seem to be well matched.”

“Faugh! If I had well-trained soldiers rather than this rabble… but what can one do but work with what one has? Just like you Blues make do with Napoleon because you can’t get yourselves a real king, and make do with dull rationalism or Protestantism lacking the faith.”

You may wonder that Merle managed to hold his temper, the discourse being so pointed. Indeed Montauran often spoke like this. He hated the Blues, and his hate was particularly strong after the supposed betrayal and subsequent escape of Mademoiselle de Verneuil. But Merle had nerves of steel, and to comments like these he barely reacted. He awaited the moment when he might speak and act freely, and in the meantime he held his tongue. It was something Gerard would never have been able to do, and when in conversation Merle was obliged to remain silent during a long rant, he imagined what Gerard would say in his head, and could hear Gerard speaking so clearly that when Montauran (or whatever Royalist Merle was speaking to at the moment) came to a finish, he imagined he had really heard Gerard’s triumphant rebuttal as well as the Royalist’s angry speech, and so he would even be able to smile and tell the speaker that they might perhaps have a point—thinking all the while of Gerard, and meaning his words for his friend rather than his enemy.

With such methods as this, and a great deal of physical endurance (for the wound still hurt keenly, and the medics were not always gentle with it, hating Blues as they did), Merle waited for the hostage exchange, and for his return to Hulot and his comrades.

* * *

What Merle did not suppose, and Hulot could not even have imagined, but only a few sly Chouans suspected, was that as the date of the hostage exchange came closer and closer, Montauran found he had less and less desire to go through with the arrangement at all.

He had thought at first that it was a brilliant way to salvage some small advantage from a terrible and shameful situation, and as well, a method to prevent his people from slaughtering Merle despite his own declaration of clemency. He still did not wish to kill Merle, and he still did want his own hostages back—though he had no personal attachment to them, they were nobles and noble blood spilled all too often these days—but ah! The thought of handing Captain Merle back over to Commander Hulot had become less and less appealing.

Captain Merle was, after all, such excellent company! Despite his Blue allegiance, he would sit and listen to Montauran wax rhapsodic about Royalist principles and his love of king and country for hours! And in more casual conversation, he was so dreadfully witty! So charming and debonair! He was, in fact, quite handsome… and unlike his men, Montauran had not experienced the pleasures of the flesh in a long time. He was generally more religious than many of them were, more moral… and this should have been enough, he thought, to prevent such an attraction to a man and worse, to a Blue, but indeed it was not enough. Captain Merle had him quite entranced, more so than even Mademoiselle de Verneuil had managed. He could not rationalize it, could not understand why, but there it was.

And so it galled him greatly to hand Merle over. The man had become something of a friend (he thought), and given time, might well become more. Though he should have learned from Mademoiselle de Verneuil the dangers of falling prey to attraction or loving a stranger, he could not resist this wave of feeling, so powerful and so strange.

Two days before the exchange was to take place, he took Merle into his private chambers. There he said to Merle, “I know you are a captain among the Blues, and that you have been wanting to return to them.”

“Yes,” Merle said, wondering why the Gars chose to state the obvious. “Indeed. Has there been a hitch in the arrangements?” Ah, he might well be shot down like a dog after all, and then what of his promise to avenge Gerard? Yet he hid his nervousness admirably.

“No, things are all very well arranged as yet. But, my dear captain, during all our conversations you have shown a high level of interest in Royalist values. I daresay when we discuss philosophy you are practically a Catholic.”

“You are always very persuasive, sir,” said Merle. (Mademoiselle de Verneuil herself could not have been more demurring.)

“Well,” Montauran said, “why stay with the Republicans when you could join us instead? Our side is more suited to a man of principle; ours is the more noble cause. A man of your valor surely ought to fight for his king. I would be honored if you would stay with us and fight beside me; indeed I am sure we all would be, and I could easily convince the others of your allegiance.”

“Sir, I am a Republican. I fight for Commander Hulot.”

“Yes, in the past—your loyalty, too, is commendable! But think, my dear captain, of the future. You have never shown so much fondness in our conversations for Hulot or for your old comrades. Forget those principles which the Republic drummed into your head, and all their false morals. Stay here with us.” Seeing Merle hesitate, he squeezed the man’s shoulders and said, “Your friend Gerard is already among the dead, at our hands. I would not like to see you join him. I have become very fond of you, and would rather not fight against you or kill you.”

And what was Merle to make of this? He pondered, silently, whether the comment on preferring not to kill him perhaps meant that Montauran intended to kill him during the hostage exchange. He would not put it beneath Montauran, a treacherous man despite his affectations at honor. Considering this, how could he refuse with impunity? Were he to say, “My morals and principles are true and yours are the treacherous ones, and I would rather be dead with my friend than stay alive with you and your barbarous Chouans”, he might well be shot where he stood—for Montauran carried with him a pistol and a sword, always, and Merle of course had no weapon to defend himself.

But he could not lie. Not even to save his own life could he say he would join with the Chouans. Even intending to betray them later—he would not lower himself to Montauran’s level, would not say that Gerard’s death had meant nothing. So at last he said, “I belong to the Republic and to Commander Hulot. If we must fight again, so be it. It may well be you die rather than I.”

On this, Montauran was infuriated. That Merle, who had become a friend, who had become—though Montauran would have denied this—an obsession, would say he belonged to Montauran’s enemy after receiving such a handsome offer! It stung his pride; that and the suggestion that Merle, who had been helpless before Montauran for as long as Montauran had known him almost, might kill him. It was these final words that spurred him into action. He shoved Merle against the wall and snarled at him, “You think yourself and your Blue soldiers a match for me, then?”

“We have shown ourselves your match in every engagement,” Merle said coolly, for he could see the time for dissembling had passed.

Montauran backhanded him across the face, and when Merle, unable to take this insult, began to struggle, he punched him in the chest where the bullet wound was. This made Merle cry out and clutch at the wound, but even as he cried, Montauran smothered him with a fierce, bitter kiss.

On realizing the Gars’ intent, Merle was more shocked than perhaps he should have been. He had long heard of the savagery of the Chouans, and knew full well their leader was no paragon. But long conversations with Montauran had lulled him into complacency, and for a moment he was too shocked to even fight as Montauran kissed him and began to tear open his clothes.

When Montauran had opened his trousers, then he did fight back. But it was too late, and after days of little activity compounded by the bullet wound, he was too weak to overcome his assailant. So Montauran pinned him to the wall and had his way with him, and there was little he could do but try not to yell too much, well aware that it would not stop Montauran and would summon no one to help him.

When Montauran was done, he calmly said, “You don’t show yourself to be much of an aggressor, my dear captain.”

Merle said, “Against the acts of dishonorable men, there is sometimes no protection.” In his head he could hear Gerard screaming, and so it was almost as good as if he were screaming himself. Gerard was indignant on his behalf, so there was no need for indignation. And Gerard, if here, might well have protected him, so perhaps it did not matter that he had been unable to protect himself.

Perhaps.

Montauran, his vicious mood not yet spent, kicked him rapidly three times. Then he said, “Well, our army does not need a weak man. You will be returned to your dear Hulot, and I wish him the joy of you.”

There was some insinuation to that phrase, but Merle forced himself to ignore it. He pulled himself to his feet and said, “Then you will still exchange me. Good; if there is no treachery in the exchange then for once in your life you will have been honest.”

Later that night he threw up. But it was in private, and he supposed that if next day his captors should comment on it, he could say it was from the pain of the bullet wound and nothing else.

* * *

Hulot was happy to have Merle back in his company. The exchange had been surprisingly straightforward for the tricky Chouans, and Merle, apart from a single wound, was in good health and might be able to fight again in a few weeks. If his moods seemed a little dire these days, ranging from the sort of pensive silence that had been more common from Gerard to a levity that seemed far rougher and more shallow than usual, it was not surprising. He and Gerard had been close, not to mention the other men under his command whom he had lost. Hulot would give him some time and space.

He was convinced, at least, that Merle was sincere in his desire for vengeance upon Montauran and the Chouans—and he assured Merle that together, this was a vengeance they would certainly achieve, and very soon. Merle smiled at him when he said so, and said that he certainly would have revenge, for Gerard's sake. This he emphasized more than Hulot thought necessary. But he supposed it no insult to the other soldiers, only a mark of Gerard and Merle's closeness. It did not occur to him that Merle might want revenge for his own sake, for that would have been unlike Merle indeed, for as little insult as an almost accidental bullet wound.

**Author's Note:**

> To Esteliel: I realized this morning that I actually forgot to gift this fic to you but I wrote it for your request so I hope you don't mind me making it your gift a little late sorry bye.


End file.
